


Love Me Like You Do

by zanzibar



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Established Relationship, F/M, New Year's Eve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2015-01-31
Packaged: 2018-03-09 19:11:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3261164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zanzibar/pseuds/zanzibar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John’s an awkward dancer and he knows it.  Never as graceful as he is on skates, never as surefooted as he feels with a stick in his hand.  But Sam’s face is flushed from dancing and amusement is sparkling in her eyes when she smiles a crooks a finger to pull him closer.  Maybe there’s no manual for falling in love with your childhood best friend, but John’s never going to be anything but happy it happened to him.  </p>
<p>In which John and Sam ring in the New Year.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Me Like You Do

**Author's Note:**

> On December 31, 2011 the Edmonton Oilers lost 4-1 to the New York Islanders. John Tavares scored the first goal and Sam Gagner the second. 
> 
> Sam had to be a girl for this to work out the way it played in my brain.
> 
> Title ripped from Elie Goulding's song of the same name.

John chokes on his beer when Sam walks in.

He’s been watching for her, absently, leaning against a table facing the door idly chatting with a couple of guys, waiting the way he wishes he could wait for her all the time. Even after almost 5 years together his heart skips a beat when she walks through the door, 8 Oilers in tow.

Sam forgets the cold and the game and the season and the frustration of herding 10 people to a party she just wants to get to when she sees John’s eyes flick down her bare legs and flare hot just for a second before he’s weaving his way through the crowd toward her.

It wasn’t a great night. They’ve lost 3 in a row and it’s the end of December and they’re probably bound for high draft picks and new coaches and yet another brick in the precarious rebuild tower. But Sam can’t think about any of that. She scored the only goal tonight and she’s wearing a dress Jordan talked her into buying and they have 2 days off before they roll into Chicago and it’s New Year’s Eve in New York City. And she’s going home with John Tavares tonight.

Losing streak be damned.

“Hey Johnny,” she wrapped an arm around his waist and tucked her head under his chin.

“Hi Sammy,” he pulled her close and buried his nose in her hair for a minute, because they don’t have this very often and he has to fill up his Sam-reserves for later, when it’s been a month and a half since he’s seen her anywhere but on the TV and he misses her so much it feels like he’s lost a limb.

Someone up in VIP hollers John’s name and they reluctantly step apart. His hand at her back, guiding her up the stairs to where his team waits.

He runs into her when she stops suddenly at the top of the stairs, distracted following the acre of bare, toned legs the dress reveals, ending in mile-high shoes. 

She laughs when he hurries up the last 3 steps and finally manages to drag his eyes up from her legs. 

“I wanted to wear pants, but I lost a bet,” she gestures over to Ebs who’s wearing a dress that barely covers her ass and looks like it was dyed with the spicy Merlot John’s parents serve with steak.

“You look,” he stutters, curses himself for not knowing what to say, “you look,” he stops. Because the next word out of his mouth is going to be nice, and she looks a thousand miles better than nice.

“Sometimes I forget that you have legs,” He shrugs going with honesty and feeling gratified when Sam snorts and rolls her eyes. “No shut-up,” John steps behind her to ease her jacket off and touch her again just for a minute. “Not that you have legs, but that you have those legs.”

“It’s a new dress,” Sam leans into the hand against her waist, enjoying the warm touch through the thin fabric and way his hand spans from practically the top of her ribcage to her waist. “There was a discussion about my wardrobe that ended with Ebs in my closet trying to throw things away. It turned out to be easier to yank her out and agree to buy new clothes. I gave her my laptop and credit card.” Sam shrugs and John laughs quietly sliding his hand down her bare arm to link their hands. 

“Remind me to thank her later,” he promises, “right after I thank the hockey gods for the miles of skating you do every day.” She presses her laugh against his shoulder.

Even in heels he’s taller than she is, which is an odd realization since she’s known him since he was 3 feet tall. Mostly Sam doesn’t like to be small, she doesn’t like when people call her “another undersized center.” But sometimes it’s good for this, to feel John, strong and tall beside her.

They wander through the crowd in search of drinks, Sam accepting hugs and handshakes with equal regularity. Somewhere in the crowd her team has already melted into the crowd of John’s team like they do this every weekend. 

This is one of the things John has learned about the NHL. There’s less hatred really, than he expected. There’s teams that don’t like each other and individuals who tolerate each other and people that John never wants to talk to again as long as he lives.

But mostly they do this. They play their game fiercely, score goals and pound each other into the boards, set up pretty passes and punch faces if that’s what you’re into. And if they have the opportunity they all head out to the bar together. Because in the end, whatever team they’re on, they’re the one’s who made it. They’re in the NHL and only something like 5% of kids who play major junior or college hockey ever even make it this far.

Sam and John end up in a big corner booth with 2 pitchers of beer and about 5 too many people. Bodies crammed against each other and shouting a little to be heard over the music. There’s 3 too many conversations buzzing around the table and John’s had enough beer that he’s having trouble tracking whether the conversation about penalty kill is to his left and something about video game platforms to the right or the other way around.

His hand slides along the smooth skin of Sam’s bare legs while he talks to Mouls about sticks and flex and kick points and the type of hockey nerdology that he’ll never be ashamed of, sometimes his hand stops to tap along to the low thrum of bass coming from the dance floor before tucking and sliding again.

Sam disappears at some point. Dragged down the stairs for tequila shots and out onto the dance floor by a grinning Jordan Eberle.

John watches them from afar and drinks another beer, bumping fists with Horc and joining an in-depth conversation about protein shake opinions, extras and taste tolerability.

He presses into the crowd on the dance floor to find Sam as the clock inches closer to midnight. She’s in a loose group, dancing with Ebs and a couple of wives and girlfriends and some other people he doesn’t know, Taylor the unrepentant only dude until he shows up. 

John’s an awkward dancer and he knows it. Never as graceful as he is on skates, never as surefooted as he feels with a stick in his hand. But Sam’s face is flushed from dancing and amusement is sparkling in her eyes when she smiles a crooks a finger to pull him closer. Maybe there’s no manual for falling in love with your childhood best friend, but John’s never going to be anything but happy it happened to him. 

The music picks up as the clock nears midnight, the beat thrumming through his bones as the crowd presses closer and more people find their way to the dance floor. He’s had enough beer to lubricate his hips a little and with Sam wrapped in his arms John doesn’t feel like there's any chance he's the worst dancer in the room. When Sam links their fingers and turns so her back presses against his front, sliding a hand against the smooth material of his pants and grinding her ass against him, he’s helpless to do anything but spread his hands across her hips and grind right back.

“I love you,” he mumbles in her ear, breathless at the slide of her body against his, at the anonymity of a dark club and a crowded dancefloor. She squeezes his hand and reaches up to thread her fingers through the short hair at the back of his neck, his head pulled forward to duck against her bare shoulder. To press his mouth against her soft skin and wonder randomly what kind of lotion she uses because his skin is as dry as Death Valley after 3 showers a day and hard arena water and the generically convenient soap hockey teams buy in bulk.

Sam’s skirt hikes a little higher as she grinds against John, she laughs, tossing her head back to rest against his shoulder, her head spinning from the beer and the dancing. John’s hands are heavy against her waist but light when they're teasing around the hem of her dress, sliding back up to pull her closer against him, the evidence of his growing arousal pressed perfectly against her ass.

The music quiets as the countdown begins and she turns around in his arms. Because the best thing about this night is that for once she gets to kiss John as the clock strikes midnight and she’s not going to miss the opportunity. His face lights up as she meets his eyes, an unconscious smile just for her as they countdown together. But Sam’s always been impatient for what’s next and 3 seconds before the new year officially arrives she presses their lips together and unabashedly breaks her own rule about kissing with tongue in public. Sliding their lips together and licking away the taste of beer and bar food until all she can taste is John, clean and familiar and exactly what she wants.

They’re both breathless when they finally pull away, confetti in their hair and couples swaying to the music all around them. Sam weaves their fingers together and rests her head on his shoulder and John spreads a hand across her back and presses his lips against her forehead, bodies twined together again.

They leave as early as they can after the clock rings midnight, ignoring the catcalls from their teams and bundling into a cab by 12:40 and wandering up his sidewalk hand in hand before the clock strikes 1.

“It’s a shame to lose the shoes,” John quirks a half smile as they walk through his front door. His hair is mussed from her hands clearing confetti and the blue gingham shirt she made him buy because it matched his eyes is half untucked from his pants.

“They are pretty fantastic shoes,” she tilted her foot up to admire the cascade of colors against the low light in the entryway.

They get caught up kissing again in his entryway. Spoiled for once with an almost long night ahead of them and a day off tomorrow to boot. Her hands, nimble as always, working to unbutton his shirt and press it from his shoulders. Taking the opportunity to streak unerringly under the tshirt to find warm skin.

“Let’s go upstairs,” Sam mumbles against the hollow of his neck.

“Water first,” He wraps his arms more tightly around her and squeezes for a second, pressing one more quick kiss against her mouth before nudging her toward the kitchen.

“Drunk?” He catches her against him when she stumbles a little bit in the doorway leading to the kitchen.

“Just happy,” she grinned. “It’s nice to be here with you. To celebrate a holiday with you in person for once. And the shoes,” she admits.

“It’s awesome to have you here,” he smiled, the half-lip twitch Sam’s been in love with since she was 14. She pulled glasses from the cupboard, handing one to him for ice while filling hers with tap water. She cocked her hip and leaned against the counter to drink, at home in his kitchen in a way that briefly takes his breath away.

Somewhere over the City there’s a burst of light, illegal fireworks somewhere flashing against the dark night sky and she turned quickly to see the bursts of light, bumping their legs together while he filled his glass and watched the sky for more.

He stepped behind her when he finished, empty glass clinking quietly against the counter, warm body pressed against her back. Sam grinned and took a sip of her water before sinking back against his body, a welcome invitation to fit their bodies together in an echo of their earlier dance. 

The heels she still wore brought her height up just enough for John to tip his head and nip at her neck while she worked their bodies together. Sliding his lips against the single strap of her dress and down her back, admiring the slide of muscle under her skin, a reminder always that for all he thought of her as delicate she’s still one of the strongest people he knows.

“I love this color,” he hooked his chin over her shoulder and slid his fingers across the fabric a her hips, smiling as her breath skipped a beat. 

“It’s just gray,” she tilted her head back to press her lips against his neck. 

“It’s like moonlight on the lake at the cottage in the summer,” John shook his head, reaching up to trace his fingers across the edges of her bra and cup her breasts through the cool fabric. “It reminds me of the summer you convinced me to go skinny-dipping on the night of the full moon and I thought seeing your breasts would kill me before our parents ever did.”

“You never told me that,” she stretched her body up enough that the bra slid down a little, letting him toy with her nipples while she tilted her head to press their lips together. “If I had known I would have tried to convince you more often.”

“I got there eventually,” he pressed his lips there too. “And I didn’t die in the process. And you wore a dress tonight and lived to tell the tale.”

“I’m glad you like it,” she admitted, arching against his hands as they slid down, pressing into him as he pulled the skirt up until he could rest his hands against her bare waist.

“I love it,” John whispered against the back of her neck, the house quiet around them. “But how do I get it off.” He punctuated the low question with a kiss against the skin behind her ear, a soft bite to the delicate tendons of her neck.

“There’s a zipper on the side. And then it just sort of all slides off,” Sam threaded a hand through his hair while he found it with clever fingers and nudged the single-strap from her shoulder with his lips and chin. Groaning when the grey fabric slid gracefully to pool at her feet and left her pressed against him in nothing but a black strapless bra, thong and heels.

His hands raced back to tease her nipples, her teacup breasts a perfect handful in his hockey-calloused hands. Pressing her body back against his and grinding against him, hard and ready in his dress pants.

“I want you like this,” the words spilled out of his mouth almost without permission when she made the move to turn, hands pressing lightly against her hips to prevent it, “Jesus fuck Sammy I can’t think for wanting you like this.”

“You can have me,” her voice shook as his hands brushed against her bare back, shoving his pants and boxers toward the floor, “you can always have me. I want you always to have me.”

“Shoes on?” she unclasped her bra and leaned over to slide her thong toward the floor, glancing back to meet his eyes, amusement mixed with desire now as she widened her stance, the action turning her ass up and all but begging him to drag her back against him.

He stepped between her legs and ran a hand down the arch of her back.

“I would have done this at the bar,” he admitted as he slid into her warm, wet heat. “I wanted to this at the bar, just flip up your skirt and take you.”

“I would have let you,” Sam drew 2 breaths as he bottomed out, resting her elbows on the counter and hanging her head between them. “After that dance I would have let you do anything.”

“Everyone we knew was there,” John admitted, drawing a deep breath and setting a slow even pace when he wanted to thrust uncontrollably. “It’s hard to reconcile how much I want to bend you over the nearest surface and make you scream when there’s a bunch of people we work with milling around all of those surfaces.”

The laugh is punched out of her when he slides back in, picking up the pace, strokes strong and sure. Jordan asked her once how she’d known that John was her forever. And this is part of the answer, he’s taking her apart, expertly, piece by piece in the middle of his kitchen in Long Island, hands full of her breasts and filling her the way only he can, but he’s also the only person who she can imagine laughing with during sex.

Her hands skid a little over the smooth granite and she slid them down to brace against the edge. Moaning his name when the leverage allows her to push back into his thrusts, the winter white of her skin a cool contrast against his counters. They find the rhythm together, until John’s coaxing noises out of her on every thrust and leaning over to press kisses against her back and tweak her nipples until she was practically sobbing with the need to come.

He slid her legs a little wider as he fought to maintain a rhythm. Pressing his feet against hers until he could reach around and make light circles around her clit, a lifetime of knowledge of how to get her exactly where he wanted her to be.

“Yes, yes, yes,” Sam chanted dropping her head against the granite as she shook apart around him. Still trembling with the aftershocks when he slammed into her one final time, the eager clamp of her body around him enough to push him over the edge.

“John Tavares you are full of surprises,” Sam grinned as she turned and stepped out of her shoes and gathered their scattered clothes.

“I love you,” he pressed their lips together again and pulled the shoes from her hand when she shivered. “Upstairs, it’s warm there.”

There’s an extra toothbrush for her in the bathroom and a dozen red roses in a vase on her side of the bed and Sam’s naked and a little cold and a little exhausted from drinking and dancing and sex in the kitchen. But all of that’s forgotten when they curl together in bed and John arranges the covers over both of them, wrapping his warm body against hers and pressing their mouths together. 

“Happy New Year,” she whispers, tucking her face against his neck and drawing a deep contented breath.

“Happy New Year,” John pulls her impossibly closer and buries his face in her hair.


End file.
